


Are You Not Battle Dressed

by eeyore1222



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, I guess Harold and John and Bear are also in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:18:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore1222/pseuds/eeyore1222
Summary: What comradeship means in times of war.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on Twitter posted screenshots from 3x17 and 3x21, showing Shaw in the latter wearing the same scarf as Root in the former. Thus the idea for this fic. I further noticed that the blue jean coat young Sam Groves had on her that night in the library seemed to be the same one Hanna was wearing in an earlier photo of the two girls. 
> 
> The title is taken from an old Chinese poem, “Comradeship”, which goes as follows:
> 
> Are you not battle-dressed? Let’s share the plate for breast!  
> We shall go up the line. Let’s make your lances shine!  
> Your foe is mine.
> 
> Are you not battle-dressed? Let’s share the coat and vest!  
> We shall go up the line. Let’s make our halberds shine!  
> Your job is mine.
> 
> Are you not battle-dressed? Let’s share kilt and the rest!  
> We shall go up the line. Let’s make our armor shine!  
> And march your hand in mine.
> 
> The poem is in The Book of Songs [Shi-Jing], a collection of more than 300 old songs in ancient China. This particular one is from Folk Songs of the Qin State. (《诗经 秦风 无衣》)

***

Are You Not Battle Dressed

 

When you were a young girl back in Texas, there was this one occasion when you got drenched in a rain with Hanna on your way home. Rains were rare in your part of the country and people seldom used umbrellas. But that was some heavy rain and both of you were soaked through. Once you followed Hanna to her door, you should have continued down the road to your home outside the town, but she was bent on dragging you into the house. Hanna’s Mom handed you a big fluffy bath towel to dry yourself, and then put you in an old skirt of Hanna’s she’d grown out of.

It was the first and only time in your 22 years in Bishop that you were ever in a skirt.

The rain stopped eventually and you should go home. The wind was chilly outside so Hanna’s Mom put another blue jean coat over your shoulder.

Your own mother didn’t seem to notice that you were dressed completely different when you came back. You wore that coat to school every day for almost a month, till the weather got too cold and you needed warmer outwear. You were hanging the washed-clean piece out to dry when your mother asked: “Is that yours?”

“Uh huh.” You did not raise your eyes to meet hers.

“Why don’t I remember.” She mumbled. 

You didn’t respond and she didn’t enquire further. In fact, that might be the very last time she mastered enough energy to pay attention to the details of your life. When the year turned and it was warm enough for you to make use of that coat again, you’d grown so much that you were almost as tall as Hanna had been the year before. Both the skirt and the coat were no longer proper attire for you. At that time you rarely showed up at school. Your mother never asked what you were doing in your room during school hours with what seemed like a TV set and a keyboard. She also never questioned your possession of said TV set and keyboard.

No one paid attention to what you did. No one cared what clothes you put on yourself. You didn't care either. 

Unlike most girls you don’t see clothes as important personal items. You don’t own many personal items. Nor do you have a particular aesthetics when it comes to your wardrobe. You left Bishop and became accustomed to wearing leather jackets, but it was more of a habit than anything else. Leather clothes were not common in Bishop. People there were stubborn in their preference for denim and plaid shirts. So you went for something different: a plain T-shirt, a tight, short, mostly black jacket over it, and dark jeans or leather pants underneath. They are showy but in a low profile, with just the right degree of both coolness and practicality. You are a hacker; you are the “Root”. This outfit suits your new identity, works for motor cycle rides, and looks good on you. 

You would thus think to yourself when you caught your own image in reflective surfaces. 

You know that you are a good-looking woman according to the standards of the vulgar world. You are also good at dressing up and presenting a more exquisite and charming version of yourself, also according to the standards of the vulgar world. But other than availing yourself of this fact to guide others into acting exactly as you wish them to, you don’t see good looks in themselves as something you’d like to care about. You are not happy when men compliment your beauty. But you don’t mind girls staring at you.

 

*

“You are beautiful.” The first “person” who made that comment to your face and didn’t raise some discomfort in you was The Machine.

It was a surprise. “I think Harry would frown if he learns that you judge people by their looks.”

“I don’t judge. I observe. Primary Asset Shaw enjoys looking at you. She thinks you are beautiful.”

You almost laughed out loud. “I guess you can be mistaken then?”

“I am not. She only looks at you when you are not paying attention. I guess the proper English word is ‘peeping’, but I don’t think it is something bad in her case. I do not detect ill will on her part.”

So you put The Machine’s observations to test. Sometimes when you were talking to Harold or John, you would turn your head quickly to dart a look at Shaw. When you sat for long hours in front of Harold’s computers, taking comfort in that orderly world of 1s and 0s, and only popping up your head for some fresh air for brief moments, you would steal a glimpse where you thought Shaw would be cleaning her guns (and sometimes yours) or playing with Bear. Occasionally when you were sitting on the same bench with her by your side, or even when you two were engaged in a face to face conversation, you would purposefully direct your attention away from those gorgeous eyes of hers, just so that when you redirect it, you would find them focused on your face. At that exact moment when you caught her, she was always calm and cool, but would instantly become angry, even furious if those eyes happened to be staring at your lips. She would be so outraged, as if you had been making fun of her professional prowess.

An outraged Shaw is the best. The two of you would have the best angry sex, after which everything would just return to normal. She was back to her calm and cool self. You were back to that world of 1s and 0s.

*

Just like that, you got along very well for quite some time. It you were to be honest with yourself, you would have to admit that you like her, very very much. Sometimes you thoughts wandered to her, making your whole person inexplicably soft. You would experience a few seconds of dizziness, like the tender tip of your heart was soaked in something sweet and sour. You found it difficult to put that sweet, dizzy feeling into words. It was not unlike the one you had when you put on Hanna’s skirt more than 20 years ago, but they were of completely different kinds. This one Shaw roused was much sober and heavier, its sweetness almost a bitter one. Perhaps what you were feeling was what the vulgar world would call “love”. Maybe. But that was hard to imagine between an Axis II and a socialpath, a former professional assassin and a reformed hacker-killer for hire. It was not something meant for people like you. 

And if that was how you looked at it, there was no way Shaw wanted anything other than orgasms from you. The Machine’s observations were confirmed by your own: she enjoyed your looks. But you also took great pleasure from hers. In fact, you were infatuated. She was still in the furtively peeping stage while you’d long abandoned all excuses and disguises. You would allow yourself to just stare at her, whenever you wanted and for however long you wanted. You were frank and open about your infatuation, since you didn’t think for a second, that beyond the angry sex that apparently both were enjoying very much, there could be anything more between the two of you.

Until you saw her wearing your scarf the other day.

*

You were supposed to be on a long trip far away from New York. You’d already told her you had no idea when you would be back. You were worried about her injury, and she seemed somehow worried too, about the long trip you had planned. You said that she shouldn't be, as the Machine would be taking good care of you, and she was angry again. Part of the reason for her fury was that she always got a little upset whenever you mentioned the Machine being there with you. But for the most part she was angry because you seemed skeptical at her claim that the wound in her leg did not affect her at all. To prove her combat effectiveness to you she fucked you hard that night, many times over. You would fall asleep, wake up, and start another round. Fell asleep again, woke up again, and begun anew. Neither of you had any sound sleep. The one who opened her eyes first would shake the still drowsy one awake, and you got all tangled up again in each others limbs. It went like that for hours and only settled down when morning came.

She was finally fast asleep, like a rock. You, on the other hand, had been fucked so thoroughly all the way up to your brain that you were not thinking clearly when you stepped into the streets and found yourself defenseless against the knife-like cold blast of winter New York. You only realized at that moment that you’d left your chunky-knitted black scarf, and your panties, on the floor of her bedroom. 

You didn’t have the time to go back to get it. You didn’t want to disturb her slumber either. With the Machine’s help you were able to grab a long peacoat and a cowl neckwarmer on your way to the airport, from the trunk of a lorry parked on a backstreet of some shopping mall.

You received the Machine’s new direction as soon as you got off the plane at your destination. You were told to go back to New York, immediately. It was very strange.

“You are telling me to abort this mission?”

“The one in New York is far more important.” You could tell that she was trying, but failed to convey an apology in that synthesized flat tone of her electronic voice. “Analog Interface is needed. Please turn back.”

You saw Shaw again, 24 hours and an around the globe flight later. You grabbed her off the main street from John’s side and pushed her body into a back alley brick wall. The easy success made you realize that she was indeed showing off the other night. The leg injury was affecting her enough.

Shaw’s reaction, however, was nothing you had expected. You made her stagger, and you caught her wearing your scarf. The two things put together would be enough to send her into an outrage so great that she would explode. But all she shot back was a frown, grumbling something slightly annoyed. “Where the hell did you come from?”

*

You were grinning when you looked into her eyes. The Machine was not mistaken. She was happy at the sight of you. For real.

You dipped your head, and harassed her cheeks with the tips of your hair since those of your fingers were clad in gloves. She was just as clam and cool as always, but you could detect in those eyes a warm flicker of joy. 

For a second, just a second you thought, you indulged yourself in thinking about the possibility that this was something also meant for you, that you had the same lot as all the other men and women of the vulgar world.

The possibility that she felt it too, just like you.


End file.
